


Ace of Hearts

by fourth_rose



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourth_rose/pseuds/fourth_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My collection of 'Bones' episode tags - no particular order, different lengths and ratings, some angsty, some lighthearted, but all centered around B/B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ace of Hearts

**Booth is still a gambler. Short episode tag for episode #100, "The Parts in the Sum of the Whole".**

*******

 

Gordon Gordon says: Hope and patience.

Sweets says: You're the gambler.

In hindsight, Booth knows it's the cook you should trust, because –

_Alea iacta._

Look where it got Caesar in the end.

+++

_I gotta move on._

Because everyone has a breaking point, right?

Except, when she opens the door with her eyes red and puffy, he's no longer sure about just what got broken last night.

Or who.

_Will you betray me?_

_The center must hold._

_Everything changes._

_Everything happens eventually._

But in the meantime, you gotta play the hand you're dealt.

"Booth, what –"

"We're okay, Bones."

Silence. Then: "I don't know what that means."

It's a guy thing to fix stuff, right?

"I mean, I'm not okay, and – and I can see you're not okay, but... _we_ are. We'll be okay."

"...we will?"

He doesn't remember her voice ever sounding so – small.

Until last night, that is.

_Will you get your faith back?_

_The sun will come up, and tomorrow's a new day._

Except tomorrow is now today.

"Yeah, Bones, we will."

Ignoring the odds once used to be the most thrilling thing in his life.

_Everything changes._

+++

Cam looks suspicious.

Angela looks worried.

Sweets looks terrified, and flees back into his office when he spots Booth coming towards him in the corridor.

Bones looks like a porcelain doll in a lab coat, pale face set into a calm, stern mask of professionalism.

Booth looks at her and knows that the game won't ever be over as long as there's still so much to lose.

He told Sweets that he mostly won, but he knows even Sweets isn't naïve enough to buy that.

_You're the gambler._

_Do you believe in fate?_

He still does.


	2. Queen of Spades

**Brennan has always liked dead things. Episode tag for "Death of the Queen Bee"; companion piece to "Ace of Hearts".**

 *******

 

Booth says: I believe in giving this a chance.

He doesn't say: I love you.

Brennan says: Can we still work together?

She doesn't say: I can't lose you.

 _I just don't know how._

  
+++

  
Playing double means someone is always in your way – yet somehow, she's come to like having him here, right at her fingertips.

Now he's slipping out of her grasp when she reaches for him.

 _Put the brain in neutral, pop the heart into overdrive._

But she knows all you achieve that way is tearing yourself apart.

 _I don't have your kind of open heart._

The man who taught her about death saw the truth of her.

She wonders what he who taught her about life would make of it if he could see it too.

 _Is that too difficult for you?_

It's fortunate that she has always liked dead things.

  
+++

  
Entropy is a natural force that pulls everything apart.

She has accepted long ago that all those stars were never for her.

 _We opened up a door that neither of us wants to walk through._

Once something is broken, holding on to the shards will only make you cut yourself.

Yet here she is, still safe in his arms, and the music plays on for a little while longer.

 _The riddle you can't solve is how somebody could love you._

 _I knew. Right from the beginning._

She still doesn't know what that means.


	3. Truth in Advertising

**Yes, there's a ton of fics about Booth and Brennan sharing a room during the Las Vegas case. But that means that one more can't hurt, doesn't it? Episode tag for "The Woman in the Sand";** **style inspired by Astolat's 'Harry Potter' classic** _**A Weather of the Heart** _ **.**

 *******

 **  
**

"Booth?"

Soft snoring.

"Booooooth!"

"...wha?"

"Are you awake?"

Low groaning, rustling of sheets. "I am _now_ , Bones."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Is it important enough to wake me up in the middle of the night?"

"It's impossible for me to qualify that object-"

Groaning, louder this time. "Oh God, I knew I should have stayed on the couch."

"You were the one who complained that it made your back ache."

"That was before I knew you were into pillow talk at two in the morning!"

Huffing. "Fine, forget about it."

Yawning, vertebrae cracking. "Bones, now that I'm wide awake, you might as well ask. What's the matter?"

"During the last few days, I have heard several people say 'What happens in Vegas', but nobody ever seems to finish the sentence. It sounds like an incomplete quote to me, and I can only assume that it's another pop culture reference I'm unfamiliar with. Is it?"

Chuckling. "It's a slogan, Bones. 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.' Didn't Angela say something like that to you when we were working that case with the bear in Washington State?"

"I can't say I remember. What does it mean?"

Scoffing. "What do you mean, what does it mean? Sounds pretty self-explanatory to me."

Thoughtful pause. "And do you believe it to be an accurate assessment?"

"Huh? Well, I guess so… why?"

"Just asking."

Cloth rustling. Yelping. "Uh – Bones?"

"Yes?"

"Is that your hand?"

"Since we are the only two people currently in this bed, I don't know whose hand it could be but mine, Booth."

Coughing. "And… what's it doing _there_?"

"Don't you like it?"

"That's not the fucking point!"

"I don't see why not."

"Bones, you can't just go around grabbing people by the –"

"– penis?"

" _Bones_!"

Skin sliding over skin. "Interesting – your voice has gone up, and your muscles seem to be tensing, indicating that you are feeling uncomfortable, yet you have made no effort to push my hand away. Why is that?"

"… oh _God_."

"From both your physiological and your verbal reaction, I can only deduce that you're enjoying what I'm doing."

Panting. " _Fuck_ , Bones!"

"Was that a proposition or merely a general comment?"

Whimpering.

"If you want me to stop, you just need to tell me, Booth. I admit I was curious about this, but I wouldn't want to take advantage of you if you – "

"Bones, shut up and – yes, like that… oh fuck, I'm going to –"

A little breathlessly, "Please don't hold back on my behalf, Booth."

Muffled cry. "God, Bones, _yes_!"

Stilling, harsh panting.

"…wow."

Low chuckling. "I can see why Cam was willing to start a physical relationship with you."

Sudden silence. "Did you really have to bring her up now?"

"Is that a problem?"

Embarrassed coughing. "Cam and I, we were never –"

"Sleeping together? I find that hard to believe."

More coughing. "Yeah, sure we were sleeping together. But I mean, we were never – _together_ together, you know? More like… friends with benefits."

"You don't need to justify yourself to me, Booth; you are the one who claims to believe in monogamy, not me."

"I do, all right? It's just that – Cam always knew I wasn't that guy for her, and I always knew she wasn't that woman for me. We've always just been –"

"Fuck buddies?"

Choking sounds. "Bones, you really gotta stop using Angela's vocabulary. Coming from you, that just sounds –"

"Arousing?"

"What? No! Why do you –"

"Booth, my hand is still where I left it. I have to say that you have a remarkably short refractory period for a man your age."

Snarling. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"There's no need to take offense, Booth; it's a fact that males past the age of thirty tend to – hrmph!"

Sheets rustling, low growling. "I'll show you a _man my age_ , Bones."

Breathless chuckling. "I'm glad to hear it."

Panting. "You know this is crazy, right?"

Moaning. "I – oh yes, right there –"

Bedsprings creaking, skin slapping against skin.

"Bones, I –"

"Damn it, Booth, don't – yes, harder – harder – "

Whispering. "That's it, baby, come for me – "

"Oh _God_ …"

" _Jesus Christ_ , Bones!"

Heavy breathing.

"… you okay?"

Soft sighing. "Very much so."

"Me too."

"Good."

Pause. "Bones?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you – you're not going to freak out on me tomorrow, are you?"

Chuckling. "Vegas, remember?"

Silence. Then softly, "Right."

"Just so we're clear on that." Snuggling. "Good night, Tony."

Covers rustling. Fingers whispering through hair.

Long pause.

"Night, Roxy."


	4. Semper Fidelis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that the title is the motto of the Marine Corps, but it just fit here, so I figure Ranger!Booth will have to forgive me…

**What if Booth found out that Brennan lied to him about JFK's bones? Episode tag for "The Proof in the Pudding".**

 *******

 

"Cam?"

"Seeley, what are you still doing here? I thought you and – "

"Listen, I need you to tell me the truth – I'm not stupid, I can tell when something is up. There's a chance that it was JFK after all, isn't there?"

Cam hesitates, but there's a reason they've been friends for over fifteen years. "We can't be sure, but yeah, there's a good chance. Sorry about that, big guy."

"It's okay. Thanks, Cam."

She just nods, a hint of sadness in her eyes, but he's already walking out the door and doesn't see it.

+++

He isn't surprised that it turns out to be one of those nights when he lies in bed staring at the ceiling and tries to focus on anything but the itching in his fingertips.

A part of him wonders why the truth didn't hit him harder, why he feels nothing but that dull pang of emptiness in his chest, and he can't help asking himself if that's what it's like to lose one's faith.

Fifty-nine. It's the number that keeps popping up in his mind at every turn, no matter how hard he tries not to think of it. Fifty-nine lives, fifty-nine human beings whose blood is on his hands. _His_ hands, not those of some flawless, blameless higher power who will take the weight of responsibility off his shoulders.

He remembers a time when he could still believe that this was the way it would go, but deep down he knows that it hasn't been like that for a while; it probably comes with the territory when you've been a soldier and a cop for too long. He thinks of a growing boy who kept clinging to the belief that Santa Claus brought the Christmas presents long after he'd seen his mother sneak brightly wrapped parcels into the house, and he cringes at the realization that it's not just children who have trouble growing up sometimes.

He doesn't regret the choices he made. He's still sure of that, but the knowledge isn't as comforting as it used to be. It's not the first time his faith has been shaken, but it has never felt like this, like he's suddenly realizing that it all comes down to him, and him alone, that nobody will speak up on his behalf at the final reckoning.

Except, perhaps, for one woman he'd until now considered incapable of lying about anything, least of all her beloved science.

He wanted to be angry with her at first. He's not a child that needs to be sheltered from ugly truths, and it fills him with a deep sense of shame that she thought he wouldn't be able to handle reality, that she considered it necessary to betray the only thing she _really_ believes in for his sake.

And yet, he can't bring himself to blame her. He knows what it means to build your life on your beliefs, to hold on to something that keeps you going no matter how rough things get – and yet she turned her back on that, let go of her need for absolute truth and did her best to bend it into a shape that she thought he could live with. It may seem like a small thing from the outside, but he knows her, knows what a leap of faith it must have been for her, and yet she did it.

For him.

He grasps the medal around his neck and rubs it between his fingers. Some things are constant, while others must change over time, and he's been around long enough to know that it's not always easy to tell the difference.

He thinks of her smile when she linked arms with him just a few hours ago, of the light in her eyes while they walked together, and he remembers the day all those years ago when she first walked next to him and told him she wanted to help him with what she called his 'cosmic balance sheet'.

He holds on to that thought as he finally drifts off to sleep. There may be nightmares tonight, of distant gunfire and blood-spattered children and the acrid smell of burning flesh, but then the sun will come up, and tomorrow will be a new day.

Perhaps he won't get back the same kind of faith he used to have, but there are still things to have faith in, and somehow that seems enough right now.


	5. Talking Dirty

**Booth knows the moment Hannah brings up the fig tree story that Bones is never going to let him live it down. Episode tag for "The Couple in the Cave".**

 *******

 

Booth knows the moment Hannah brings up the fig tree story that Bones is never going to let him live it down, but he still goes with it because he can't help loving Hannah's tendency towards inappropriate stories that is so very much _her_.

That doesn't mean he'll let Bones blab them to a stranger, so he stops her just in time before she shares the details with the park ranger.

Of course, it is too much to hope that this will be the end of the matter, because it's still Dr. Temperance Brennan, the woman with zero sense for personal boundaries, but at least they're alone in his car on their way back to DC when she brings it up again.

"You know," she begins in an almost business-like fashion, "considering your usual prudishness, I find it rather surprising that you'd agree to have sex in a semi-public place."

Booth groans inwardly, but there's nothing for it now. "Bones, enough already, okay? There was absolutely no-one in the vicinity, so it wasn't semi-public, and technically it wasn't even -" He immediately wishes he'd bitten his tongue instead of letting that slip, but it's already too late.

"It wasn't even what?" He's come to dread that intrigued tone, because she's like a dog with a bone once her interest is really piqued. "Sex? From the way Hannah told the story, I find it hard to believe that what you did under that fig tree couldn't be considered sexual intercourse."

"Well, it wasn't according to President Clinton," he mutters stubbornly, refusing to go down without a fight even if he knows he isn't going to get out of this.

She frowns in confusion for a moment, but then seems to get it. "Oh, you're implying that she performed fellatio on you, which President Clinton declared _not sex_ when his affair with Monica Lewinsky became public knowledge."

"Yeah, thanks for spelling that out for me," he grinds out between clenched teeth, because he still can't help it that his blood starts rushing south when he hears her say words like _fellatio_ in that clinical tone. That way lies madness, though, so he clings to the memory of Hannah's mouth on him that evening when she pressed him against the tree, kissed him senseless and then sank to her knees with that wicked little smile that never fails to drive him crazy. It may not be appropriate to fantasize about your girlfriend in the presence of your par… your workplace associate, but it's better than the alternative, especially since Bones dropped that little bombshell about her fantasies in Maluku at the diner. He feels his cheeks burn and hates that she can still make him blush and squirm like some stupid schoolboy, and the longer he thinks about it, the angrier he gets, because even Bones has no business being _that_ dense, does she? He has no idea what she's playing at with all this, and he really doesn't want to know.

"I think it's safe to agree that most –" She never gets to finish what sounds like the beginning of an anthropology lecture, because that's when he snaps.

"Bones, the topic of my sex life is off limits to you, okay? You've lost the right to bring it up, dammit!"

He immediately regrets the last sentence when she recoils as if he'd slapped her. Great, now she managed to make him feel like an asshole too, but he'll be damned if he apologizes now, so he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on the road.

They're both silent for a long time, and when she finally speaks up again, it's in that lost little girl tone he has come to dread more than anything else about her.

"Booth, I – I'm really glad that Hannah makes you happy."

He has no idea how she does it, how she makes him want to strangle her one moment and then makes his heart ache in the next, but he knows better than to contemplate it. Instead, he just says, "Thanks, Bones" as evenly as he can and is careful not to look at her.

"Are – are we okay?" Now she sounds even more uncertain than before, and Booth clenches his teeth again because he has no idea how to answer that.

"Yeah, Bones, we are," he gets out at last and still can't help the relief that floods him when he sees her face relax out of the corner of his eye.

 _Fake it till you make it_ , a voice that sounds disturbingly like Hannah at her most impish speaks up in his mind, and Booth tightens his grip on the steering wheel and resigns himself to the uphill battle looming ahead of him.


	6. Slouching towards Camelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dynamic between Booth and Inspector Pritchard just seemed too interesting not to explore it, so that's what I'm doing here (please consider yourself warned if you don't like to read about Booth with a woman who isn't Brennan). Still, in the end all things 'Bones' are about B/B for me, and this ficlet is definitely no exception, so I can only ask my fellow shippers to bear with me :-)

**_"It doesn't mean you're not Sir Galahad."_ Even the strongest resolve takes a knock when one loses one's partner. Episode tag for "Yanks in the UK".**

 *******

 

He isn't sure why he offered to drive her home – perhaps it's that lost look on her face that reminds him a little of Bones when she doesn't want anyone to notice that something is getting to her. He knows he did the right thing when her expression softens a little, although she doesn't say another word during the whole ride.

It's only when he opens the car door for her in front of her building that she opens her mouth. "Would you like to come in?"

The look that accompanies the question can't really be misinterpreted, and Booth hesitates, uncertain how to react. "Pritch…"

"Please." Her voice is soft, as is the hand on his arm, but her eyes are flat and somehow empty. "No strings, no expectations – I just… I can't…"

He looks at her and wonders again what he would do if it had been him who'd lost… before he can fully finish the thought, he's standing outside her apartment with her, and she gives him a tense little smile as she unlocks the door.

"Pritch, listen –"

But she just shakes her head once, sharply; the door falls shut behind him before he can get another word in, and her lips on his cut off the rest of his sentence, then make him forget what he was going to say altogether.

Booth manages to resist for another few seconds, but then her hands are on his belt buckle, and his body pretty much switches to autopilot. This is completely messed up, but damn, he's only human, and he hasn't been with a woman in what feels like forever. Bones would probably say something about biological urges now, but he shushes the voice in the back of his head that sounds so much like her and tries not to think at all.

They stumble towards the bedroom together, shedding clothes along the way. They're both mostly naked by the time they reach the bed, and she turns to open the nightstand drawer (providing him with a breathtaking view of her ass) and presses a condom into his hand before she lies back on the bed, her eyes never quite meeting his.

Booth manages to put on the condom with minimal fumbling (like riding a bike, he can't help thinking) and allows himself one good, long look at her before he follows her onto the bed. If things were different, he'd love to take his time with her gorgeous body, to run his hands over those breasts, to press his lips against that dark patch of curls and slowly let them wander lower, but that's not what he's here for – she doesn't want a lover, she wants him to fuck her into oblivion, and it's the only thing he can give her.

Yes, she's using him, because there can be no doubt that she's pretending he's someone else, but he can't help feeling that he's in no position to blame her for it. She's all over him, touching, urging, demanding, and Booth hopes she's getting what she needs out of this as he pushes into her after what feels like no time at all. She clings to him like he's the only thing preventing her from drowning, her taut body a stark contrast to the soft, silky warmth that surrounds him with every thrust. He knows what she expects of him, and he gives it to her, fast and harsh and so much rougher than it should be with a woman as willowy and graceful as her.

She's whispering something as she's getting close, and Booth buries his face in her hair and tries not to listen because even though he knows none of this is about him, he still doesn't want to hear a name that isn't his from the woman he's in bed with. Unbidden, the memory of Bones at his "funeral", her expression livid and her eyes dark with fury, rises in his mind, and Booth feels an irrational pang of guilt as if he were cheating on her somehow. He tries to push thoughts of Bones aside, but he's not fast enough to keep himself from wondering whether this is what _she_ did when she thought he was gone, whether she too took some meaningless stranger to bed so he could distract her from feeling the impact of losing her partner.

The idea makes him cringe at his own stupidity. The woman who didn't even cry at his funeral – she wouldn't do anything so irrational, she probably compartmentalized it all away just like Sweets knew she would, and she sure isn't thinking of him whenever she invites another loser into her bedroom.

Booth closes his eyes and tries to focus on nothing but the woman he's with, because she deserves at least that much, but he can't help it that just for a second, it's _her_ under him, her body moving with him in a frenzied rhythm, her nails digging into his shoulders and her breath hot against his skin. It's dangerous territory for his thoughts to stray into, doubly so while he's in bed with someone else, and he's immensely grateful when Pritch brings him back to the present as she starts clenching around him, because now he can let go too without facing the question whether it's the images in his mind that are pushing him over the edge.

Her gasp when she comes sounds almost like a sob, and he does his best to block it out and concentrate on nothing but his own orgasm because he hates the idea of a woman crying while he's inside her. She keeps her arms around him for just a moment right after, and for a second he thinks she's still going to cry, but she doesn't. She lets go of him instead, and Booth rolls off her with a mixture of relief and unease and stretches out next to her, determined to just catch his breath before he'll hopefully figure out a way to get out of this mess with as little awkwardness as possible.

+++

The fading light of late evening is filtering through the windows when he opens his eyes again. Pritch is on her back, her eyes closed and her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. She doesn't stir when he slowly sits up, even though he doesn't believe for a second that she's asleep.

He's not the kind of guy who takes off before the woman beside him wakes up, but he understands that she's trying to make this easier for both of them. What would he say to her anyway? Glad to have been of service, ma'am?

So he bends over her, gently kisses her on the forehead and whispers, "Take care, Pritch" into her hair; then he goes to pick up his clothes and get the hell out of Dodge.

+++

"She likes you." Bones' grin is almost triumphant, and her sing-song tone makes her sound like a gleeful child.

Booth barely keeps himself from wincing. "No."

"Yes!" She leans in and adds in a husky whisper, "And she's very sexual."

"Enough." God, did she really have to use that tone _now_? "It's just… stop."

She seems puzzled, but to his relief she drops the subject as they get ready to leave. They bicker about his "Australian" accent all the way out of the Oxford University Dining Hall, but once they're outside, Bones' smile fades. Instead, he's suddenly facing the curious look she always gets when she has thought something through and realizes that things don't add up.

"You didn't answer your phone when I called you yesterday evening."

Booth does his best to keep his expression neutral. "I told you I'd drive Inspector Pritchard home."

That look again. "Did you have intercourse with her?"

Under different circumstances, that would get a chuckle out of him – his Bones, never one to beat around the bush. As it is, he can only hold her gaze and hope he isn't blushing.

"I did." He wasn't planning to tell her, but he can't lie to her about this either. When she doesn't say anything, he adds, careful not to sound contrite, "Feel free to call me a hypocrite."

"I won't." She pauses too before she continues calmly, "I think I understand."

That takes him by surprise, and for a second, he's at a loss for words. He tries to read her expression, tries to see behind the meticulously schooled indifference, and he can't help remembering the fury that radiated off her when she socked him in the jaw at the cemetery, the shrill pitch in her voice when she yelled at him in his bathroom. He thinks of the horny little Brit – rest his soul – whom she snubbed for an evening of bickering by the riverside, and it hits him that there are different kinds of compartmentalizing as well as different kinds of grieving, and that he's an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

This is one of those moment when the "just partners" mantra he's been clinging to for years fails him completely and the memory of the taste of her mouth in the rain is so fresh in his mind that it makes his lips tingle.

"She kept calling me Ian throughout."

He doesn't add that he's pretty sure _he_ called her Bones.


	7. The Pitfall in the Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on what might have happened after the last scene of "The Do in the Don't", written with my tongue firmly in my cheek.

Booth was extremely grateful when his daughter fell asleep almost immediately after he'd changed her. He loved taking care of his baby girl, but right now all he could think of was Bones lounging around on their bed in that hot little number he'd bought her.

 

Okay, so maybe _lounging_ wasn't exactly Bones' style, but given what she was wearing, normal sitting or lying could probably pass as lounging too.

 

He tiptoed out of the nursery and made a dash for their bedroom, where he was met with the rather unexpected sight of Bones sitting on the bed in one of his old FBI t-shirts and reading a forensic journal. She looked up and gave him a smile that faded slightly when she noticed his expression.

 

"Is anything wrong with Christine?"

 

"What? – Oh, no, she was out like a light as soon as I put her back in the bassinet. Uh, I… I thought you were going to… you know?" Booth vaguely indicated the wad of semi-transparent fabric on the foot of the bed.

 

Bones gave a little shrug. "It doesn't fit."

 

 _Uh-oh_. That definitely hadn't featured in any of the scenarios Booth had come up with for this moment, and it was only now that he realized just how badly his little gift could blow up in his face.

 

 _If it's too small, she'll think she's fat. If it's too big, she'll think you think she's fat_ , a cheerful voice that sounded disturbingly like Sweets spoke up in his mind. _Congrats, Booth, you officially can't win this one._

 

Bracing himself for the inevitable explosion, Booth managed a weak, "Oh?"

 

She shrugged again. "It's no big deal; you still have the receipt, don't you?

 

"Yeah, sure." No calm before a hurricane had ever felt so ominous. "Look, Bones, I'm sorry – I guess I should have known…" Damn, that woman at the shop had sounded so certain that everything would fit perfectly. That was her job, after all, wasn't it?

 

"Booth, there's a reason I try on every piece of underwear before I buy it; otherwise even I would occasionally get something that doesn't fit. It would probably have been better if you'd brought me along for the purchase, but I appreciate your effort to surprise me." She gave him a smile that made Booth even more nervous than he already was. "I admit, it's not the kind of present I would have expected from you."

 

"Yeah, well…" Booth cleared his throat and tried to come up with something plausible. "I figured, all women love lingerie, right?"

 

"Actually, that's a rather common male misconception." Now she sounded like she was about to launch into another anthropology lesson. "Since the main function of this type of garment is to be sexually arousing, most women buy it with the intent to please their chosen mate. I'd have to look up statistics to back up my claim, of course, but I would consider it more accurate to say that men love lingerie and that women love men appreciating the way they look wearing it."

 

"Seriously?" Booth took a step closer to the bed; since she still wasn't biting his head off, it was probably safe to do so. "I thought women were all about lace and satin and stuff."

 

"I can't speak for all women, of course, but in my experience that kind of underwear is more for show than for everyday use." She finally closed the journal and put it on the nightstand next to the tub of slowly melting ice cream. "Show me a woman who's happily single, and I'll show you an underwear drawer full of comfy cotton."

 

"The Book of Montenegro?" Booth hazarded; there was just no way that line had come from Bones herself.

 

She gave him an impish grin. "Angela used to have a separate drawer for 'date night' underwear. Of course, for Angela, most nights were date nights before she and Hodgins were together."

 

"Same goes for Daisy, obviously," Booth murmured without thinking; he only noticed his blunder when her eyebrows shot up.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

 _Oh, damn_. "Uh, you know, Sweets said" – _bad move, Seeley, REALLY bad move_ – "I mean, he mentioned something about her wearing all kinds of fancy stuff – crotchless panties and so on…" He could have bitten off his tongue as soon as the words were out.

 

Bones' eyes narrowed. "I've shared lodgings with Miss Wick for seven months while we were in Maluku; she favors cotton panties with the day of the week printed across her buttocks. You've seen them yourself, remember?"

 

"I sure do now, although I was doing my best to suppress that memory." Booth shook his head as if that could dislodge the image that was forever burned into his retinas. Sweets was going to pay for this. "Bones, you know I didn't buy you lingerie because I don't like the things you usually wear, right?"

 

"Yes, I know." She sounded perfectly serene, and Booth finally dared to sit down next to her on the bed although he still felt like he was walking through a minefield with a blindfold over his eyes. "It seems rather unlike you to discuss Miss Wick's choice of underwear with Sweets, though."

 

"Well, he just wouldn't shut up about it, he was like a kid in a candy store in that shop…"

 

Booth faltered when he saw the rapid change in her expression, mentally replayed his last words and realized with growing horror just what he'd let slip.

 

"Dr. Sweets was with you when you bought this for me?" Her tone was way too calm for his liking.

 

"No, of course not! I kicked him out of the shop and told him to wait in the car because he kept trying to…"

 

"Then why was he there in the first place? Aren't you the one who always insists that I shouldn't share details about our sexual activities with third parties? Angela _really_ wanted to see that naked picture of you, you know."

 

Booth took a deep breath and decided that honesty was the only thing that might still save him now. "Okay, so the whole lingerie thing was his idea. I didn't want to tell him, but I was worried about you after what you said in the morning, and he just wouldn't stop needling me…"

 

"Doesn't he always?" Bones reached out towards him and placed her hand on his arm. "Booth, it's safe to assume that Sweets has been sexually active for less than a decade, so why would you take advice from someone whose experience doesn't even come near your own?"

 

Booth opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, she continued, "Or is there a problem that I'm not aware of? If that's the case, I'd prefer it if you told me first before you seek advice from somebody else."

 

Sweets was going to _die_. "Bones, there's absolutely nothing wrong, okay? Nothing, nada, zip, zilch – you're beautiful and sexy and hot and…"

 

She cut his babbling off with a kiss. "Thank you; I greatly enjoy having intercourse with you as well."

 

Booth made a face at 'intercourse', but he was aware he was in no position to complain right now. "That's good to know."

 

"Can we get started, then?" She deftly began to undo the buttons on his shirt and gave him a saucy little smile when she noticed his dumbfound expression. "What, you thought we weren't going to have sex just because the lingerie doesn't fit? I'm sure we can manage without it."

 

Booth didn't need to be told twice; in a surprisingly short time, both their clothes had joined his discarded present on the foot of the bed, the floor, and some other surfaces that really didn't matter now.

 

"Booth?"

 

"Hm?"

 

"You know that if you ever talk to Sweets about our sex life again, I'm going to give the omelet photo to Angela with my explicit permission put it on the Jeffersonian intranet?"

 

Booth was busy placing a string of soft little kisses on her collarbone and didn't even look up. "Yeah, I figured as much."


	8. Mea Culpa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had to do what he couldn't, and she had to do it alone. Episode tag for "The Past in the Present".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a deluge of episode tags for the season finale, but I couldn't resist adding my own because my take on Booth's possible reaction seems to be a little different from most of what I've read so far. 
> 
> The text in italics is the Confiteor, the prayer spoken during the Penitential Rite at the beginning of every Catholic Mass.

_I confess to almighty God_

_and to you, my brothers and sisters,_

_that I have greatly sinned_

 

He has no idea how long he's been kneeling in the narrow, uncomfortable pew, but it doesn't matter anyway; it's not like he has anywhere else to be at this hour.

 

His back and legs are beginning to hurt, but he doesn't move. He welcomes the physical discomfort, embraces it; it's easier to bear than the pain that's eating at his insides.

 

The pain, and the leaden weight of guilt.

 

He has failed them.

 

The woman he loves, the child they brought into this world – they're out there somewhere, on the run from a law that should be on their side, that he and she have both dedicated her lives to. They both used to rely on the law being their protection, yet what once was their strongest shield has been turned into a deadly weapon wielded against them by an enemy they couldn't stop – _he_ couldn't stop.

 

So she did the only thing she could, now that no place that the law's arm can reach is safe for her anymore – but it kills him to know that she had to shoulder the weight of her decision alone, that she had to keep it secret from him because he _is_ the law, because she wasn't going to make him choose between his heart and his sworn duty.

 

It doesn't console him that she knows he would have chosen her, that he would have spat the law in the face for her sake. They both felt the noose tightening around her, and he knew the moment Max brought it up that the old con was right, that she wouldn't stand a chance once she disappeared into a system that has been perverted into a death trap for her. He knew, and yet he couldn't bring himself to say what needed to be said – and he, who thought he knew her better than anyone else, never suspected that she would hear the words he _hadn't_ spoken.

 

She knows he'd betray everything he believes in for the sake of his family, and he can't deal with the fact that she decided to spare him that.

 

 

_in my thoughts and in my words_

 

How often has he told her that he's her gun, that he's the one who'll protect her, who'll take the bullet meant for her, who will die rather than let anything harm her?

 

And yet she couldn't trust him to keep their daughter safe, had to burden herself with a baby while she's on the run. He clung to the hurt, to the bubbling resentment in his stomach because it was easier to deal with than the empty, deadly weight of despair while he dazedly made his way back home from the church – until he saw Pelant standing in the nursery on the footage from their security cameras, until he was forced to realize that she was right not to entrust him with his daughter because he wouldn't have been able to keep Christine safe either.

 

Being Bones' protector has been the most natural part of his identity ever since she first called herself his partner – but she's out there now because she has to protect herself, protect her daughter, and has taken it upon herself to protect him as well.

 

She had to do what he couldn't, and she had to do it alone. He doesn't know what to do with what's left of himself now that she's gone.

 

 

_in what I have done and in what I have failed to do_

 

He will never forgive himself for walking straight into Pelant's trap. If he had kept a clear head when he got the call, if he had called Bones back immediately, or let Angela trace the call instead of following his panicked instincts, the seething hatred in his gut that was dying to have a go at the creep who kept torturing them – then he wouldn't have let a killer loose on everyone he cares about, wouldn't have cut himself off from all means to catch him before he can harm them further. Pelant handed him the rope to hang himself, and he was only too eager to do him the favor, and now Bones and his daughter are paying the price.

 

For as long as he has known her, he has tried to teach her to listen to her heart, even though there were moments that made him realize she wouldn't have needed the lessons. She has always been fierce in her fight for what she believes in, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to live with the fact that she's now fighting without him by her side because he failed to learn from _her_ , because he couldn't put his heart in a box when it might have saved them.

 

She used her cool, ruthless logic – always her sharpest, most trusted weapon – and did what he couldn't, what had to be done no matter how much pain and suffering it would cause them, and she may very well have saved them all by doing so. If the choice had been his, he would have insisted on going with her, but she was right again, he is needed here – he's the only link to the system she has left, and no matter how useless it may seem right now, they'd be nothing more than leaves in the wind if she had let him sever that last precious connection.

 

He can almost see her making the decision, head overruling heart when it comes to her choices, and yet heart forcing her to make those choices in the first place because she needs to keep her loved ones from harm.

 

He didn't think he'd ever be glad that Parker is half a word away, but now he's immensely grateful that the boy is back in England with his mother – if he were here, his son would just be one more person Booth loves but can't keep safe, now that his hands are tied and he has eyes watching him wherever he goes.

 

 

_through my fault, through my own fault_

 

He's back at work, even though he's stuck behind his desk and isn't allowed to go anywhere near the agents who are working Bones' case. He hates the pity and the badly concealed curiosity, but he needs to be there in order to stay in the loop on the investigation against Pelant – not that the FBI is still doing much in that regard since not a shred of evidence in the loony genius murder points to him.

 

The squints do what they can, and Booth tries to take comfort from that even though he can see what it's costing them, and how little success they're having in their efforts. He visits the lab every day to check on what they have and wonders if the disappointment and reproach he sees in everyone's eyes is real or just his imagination. He knows he has let them all down by failing one of theirs, and he tries to keep their spirits up since there's nothing else he can do to help them. The evening Cam came over to check on him was the only time he allowed himself to break down and cry into her shoulder, but it's a lapse he's determined not to repeat. He sleeps on the couch in the living room because he can't bring himself to set foot in their bedroom, to walk up the stairs towards the empty crib in the nursery, but these things don't matter, _he_ doesn't matter – all that still matters is the job Bones and Christine need him to do.

 

He could easily tell the FBI everything he knows about Bones' escape because he knows absolutely nothing, and he's torn between being glad that Max will be there to help them and hating that Bones now depends on the man who once abandoned her when his old crimes came back to bite him in the ass. Booth has always respected Max, but he isn't in the mood to be forgiving right now – he's grateful for Max' help, and he knows the old man will watch over his daughter and granddaughter, but he resents Max' all-knowing act because their situations don't compare, because Max and Ruth Keenan ran from the consequences of a criminal past while _she_ has done nothing to deserve this.

 

 

_through my own most grievous fault_

 

He knows that Bones would berate him for feeling that it would have been his job to protect his family. She would remind him that they're partners, that they have always faced danger together, that she's no damsel in distress who needs her White Knight to swoop in at the eleventh hour. It's what she would say in that stern, no-nonsense teacher voice of hers, and he would readily agree with her, but it doesn't change the feeling that he failed her when it really counted, that he should have been her paladin in this fight instead of the other way around. He once told her that she helps him being a guy because guys fix things, but now she has to deal with a mess that was too much for him to clear up, that he even made worse when he handed the killer who is after them his freedom on a silver platter.

 

For as long as Booth can remember, he has struggled with the fear that even his best efforts will never be good enough, that in the end, nobody could ever be bothered to stay with him because he doesn't deserve to be loved. It's not quite the same now, because he knows for certain that she loves him, but thinking back to those last moments before she left it hurts to realize that she wasn't certain he knew because she felt the need to reassure him.

 

He saw her expression when she drove away, and it's like a stab to the heart every time the image surfaces in his memory. She knows what it means to be left behind, to watch your family leave you – and her face told him what it did to her that she was now leaving him to go through the same ordeal.

 

He isn't sure whether that makes it better or worse.

 

 

_Therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,_

_all the Angels and Saints,_

_and you, my brothers and sisters,_

_to pray for me to the Lord our God._

 

He'll do everything he can to bring them back safely, but right now he's only too aware of how little he can do, how he's hitting dead ends at every turn, how all his efforts have been in vain so far because he's trying to run a race with chains around his feet and a blindfold over his eyes.

 

So he prays, head bowed over clenched hands in a dark, empty church, because it's the only thing still in his power to do, but not for himself, never for himself.

 

All his hopes and prayers rest on God and His saints to do what he couldn't.

 

Keep them safe.

 

Bring them home.

 

_Amen._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify – I didn't write this fic to put blame on Booth. It's just that, given who he is, I would be very surprised if he didn't blame himself after what went down in the finale.


	9. Road Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She keeps thinking of car rides whenever she starts missing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-episode tag for the season 5 finale, "The Beginning in the End", written before the start of season 6.

She keeps thinking of car rides whenever she starts missing him. No kisses in the rain, no Thai food at one o'clock in the morning, no guy hugs or coffee carts or airports, just a road and a car and the two of them, going somewhere.  
  
Temperance Brennan is a renowned writer, so it's hardly surprising that she has a vivid imagination. It's a good thing, too, because there's nobody else to keep her company during those nights in the Indonesian jungle when she's alone in her tent and it's too hot and humid to sleep. There was a time when she used to do this a lot, just letting her mind wander and allowing it to come up with all kinds of interesting scenarios, before she had to start keeping a closer rein on it to keep it from straying into dangerous territory. That's how Kathy and Andy were born all those years ago, conceived during a night that left the bitter aftertaste of alcohol and regret on her tongue. She let them go where she could not, run wild where she had to tread carefully because there were lines and pitfalls and too much to lose. But now that he's half a world away, she feels the reins slipping from her grasp, and it's no longer Andy Lister she pictures when she presses the heel of her hand between her legs and stops fighting the images she has tucked away safely during the day.  
  
It's always the car, but she doesn't wonder about it because psychology is a soft science and of no use to her. She closes her eyes and pictures the steady hum of the SUV, the smell of his aftershave filling her nostrils and the sound of his voice as he prattles on about something she doesn't understand. She can almost see him shake his head at her when she tells him just that, and for a second the feeling of loss and yearning is so strong that it's like a weight on her chest. In her mind, he's now looking smug as if he knew what he's doing to her, and she takes a deep breath and imagines wiping that smirk off his face by running her hand up his leg and sliding a finger under his belt buckle.  
  
It's been two months since she last saw him when she first dreams of him. He's been on her mind a lot lately, and she tries not to worry too much, tries to believe his emails which tell her that he's okay, but not much else. She knows he's hurting, and that there's nothing she can do about it, but when she sees him in her dream that night he looks like she remembers him from before, a cocky grin on his face and his arms warm and familiar around her. She doesn't recall much of the dream when she wakes up, but her body is tingling with something she can't identify, and she presses her hips into the mattress and imagines straddling him in the driver's seat of the SUV with the steering wheel digging into her back while her mouth is on his, reveling in the taste she hasn't been able to forget. He's bucking against her, hard and wanting, and she grinds herself into him until her body clenches and spasms and he bites down on her lips hard enough to draw blood.  
  
After that, she gives up trying to censor her imagination. There's little time for daydreaming during the long hours of hard, fascinating work, but when she falls into bed at night, sore and tired and aching all over, she doesn't think of Afghanistan and courtrooms and the steps of the Hoover Building; she closes her eyes and goes on another car ride with him. Sometimes they bicker until she reaches over and shuts him up by boldly placing her hand in his lap, sometimes they laugh and joke until he stops at a red light and leans over to kiss her until she's breathless and boneless in his arms.   
  
Three days before Christmas, he sends her an email with a photo of him, his hair much shorter and his skin tone much darker than she remembers, his eyes hooded and unreadable even though he's smiling at the camera. That night, she imagines how his eyes would widen if she asked him to pull over and then got down on her knees. She remembers removing this belt buckle and sliding off his belt just before last Christmas, and she does it again in her mind, only now she doesn't stop there, and he's not reciting saints when she closes her lips around him, it's all moans and harsh breaths and soft curses as she revels in his taste, his smell, the silky feel of him on her tongue and under her fingers while his hands are clenched in her hair.  
  
Then there's that time when he goes on a mission that puts him out of reach for almost a month, and she doesn't allow herself to think of all the things that could happen to him. Instead, she pictures fighting with him over some religious topic while they're on some bumpy dirt road somewhere in the countryside, and he has to keep his eyes on the road even though he really wants to glare at her for pointing out the irrationality of his beliefs. She imagines how his jaw clenches and his knuckles on the steering wheel turn white when she cups him through his pants and squeezes until she feels him hardening under her palm while she keeps lecturing him. It's enough for a while, but then she hears of an attack against a US Army base near Kabul, and when she's still tossing and turning at three in the morning the following night she lets the scene go further and imagines how he suddenly hits the brakes with a growl deep in his throat, drags her out of the car and bends her over the hood before she even knows what's happening. He thrusts into her until she's whimpering beneath him, her face pressed against smooth, warm metal and his body hard and hot behind her, over her, and she lets him and pushes back against him and tries not to think of anything but the feeling of him inside her.  
  
When she finally gets another email from him, a brief message that only says, _I'm fine. Miss you, B._ , she bursts into tears right there in their makeshift computer lab at the dig and spends the rest of the day scolding herself for overreacting so stupidly. That night, she's under him in the backseat of the SUV, his pulse drumming a rapid beat against her chest and the naked skin of his back slick with sweat under her hands. She digs her nails into his shoulders and holds on with all her might, his arms so tightly around her that she can hardly breathe and her legs clenching around his hips while he pushes into her in a frenzied rhythm that rocks the whole car. This isn't the lovemaking he once talked about, this is two people trying to crawl into each other's skin until there's no space left between them, no room for heartbreak or doubt or fear or danger or thoughts of the past, or the future.  
  
This is the moment when she understands that she's lost; that she might just as well go back to him right now because no matter how far she runs, how much distance she puts between them, he'll still be with her, filling every corner of her mind, and there's nothing she can do about it. She knows that she should not accept it, that the fact she's allowed herself to become so attached to another person should alarm her, but she feels more at home in her own skin than she has in a long while, and for the first time since she saw him last at the airport she allows herself to count the days until he'll be waiting for her at the Reflecting Pool.   
  
She knows that she still can't promise him his thirty, forty, fifty years, because there's just no way to tell where the road will take them, but sometimes she thinks that maybe she'd like to hang on for the ride.   
  
  
  
  
  
_fin_


	10. Tying the Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn the Incas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a post-season finale tag, and therefore contains spoilers for the season 8 finale. It's also pure, unadulterated crack, so please put your tongue firmly in your cheek while you're reading ;-)

Temperance Brennan was frowning at something when Angela walked into her office.

 

"Hey, Sweetie, what's up? You look all pinchy."

 

Brennan's frown deepened. "I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean, but I found this on my desk when I came back from lunch."

 

Angela stepped closer. "Looks like a piece of string to me."

 

"It is." Brennan held up the object in question; it was neon pink and had the appearance of something filched from a small child's toy loom. "There are knots in it."

 

"Well, that happens when a piece of string is lying around. Why is it important?"

 

"It probably isn't; it just feels like a strange coincidence because I seem to come across a lot of knots lately." Noticing Angela's puzzled face, she added, "This morning, there were knots in my favorite necklace, and then Christine somehow managed to tie several knots into her shoelaces even though she has never been able to do that before."

 

"Well, there you have it then – the mini genius worked out how to tie knots and is practicing all over the place now."

 

Brennan shook her head. "That's what I assumed at first too, but then I found knots in the charging cable of my cell phone, and I never leave that where she can reach it."

 

Angela shrugged. "Cables have a way of tying themselves into knots all the time."

 

"No they don't." Brennan finally put the offending piece of string aside, but she didn't seem ready to let go of the topic. "Knots don't just appear by themselves; they require some kind of outside force, and in most cases that force is applied by human hands." She brightened a little when a thought occurred to her. "The Incas even devised the _quipu_ , the Talking Knots, which were used as a kind of writing. I read a fascinating book about it a while ago…"

 

Angela cut her off before she could slip into full anthro mode. "That's really cool, Sweetie, but could you take a look at this reconstruction instead of your knots now? I'm sure they don't mean anything."

 

Brennan sighed. "You're probably right." She still made a mental note to ask Booth about the book – she had been looking for it last night because she wanted to re-check the Incan knotting patterns, but for some reason it had been missing from its place on the shelf. Maybe Booth had seen it.

 

+++

 

As she had expected, Booth scoffed at the insinuation that he might have had anything to do with the disappearance of a book about Incan _anything_. "You're kidding, right?"

 

Brennan eyed the empty spot on the bookshelf with dismay. "Then I really don't know where I put it."

 

Booth shrugged and turned back to the TV. "You probably lost it somewhere."

 

He felt a little bad about the remark when she exited the room in a huff – he knew that it would be a cold day in hell before Bones lost one of her anthropology books, and that the mere suggestion probably felt like an attack on her scientific integrity to her, but he hadn't been able to think of another way to end the conversation before it tipped off the invisible foe who might be watching their every move right now.

 

It was no good anyway – either he sucked even worse at any kind of handicraft than he had assumed until now, or that old Incan knot writing just hadn't been designed to convey the message _I didn't want to call off the engagement, Pelant forced me to do it_.

 

Booth ran a hand though his hair in frustration; he was beginning to run out of options. Morse code was too obvious and Braille too nondescript – Bones had just scooped up all those dots of ketchup with his fries without noticing the patterns, and he couldn't even tap them into her skin while they were safely under the covers at night (they _were_ still safe under the covers, right? Was there a way to bug a duvet?) because she was ticklish as hell and started squealing whenever he tried. Scratching a message into her bar of soap had been a total bust because it had made her think that Christine had gnawed at it, and the artfully arranged blobs of toothpaste foam in the sink had only made her wrinkle her nose and call him a slob.

 

He had really had high hopes for the Incan knots because they were so _anthropological_. The Native American _wampum_ thingie had looked promising too, but you needed beads for that, and Christine didn't have any among her toys because Bones claimed that she might swallow them. He could have cut up one of Bones' beloved bead necklaces, of course, but while he was definitely getting desperate, he wasn't anywhere near suicidal so far.

 

Booth sighed and resigned himself to the fact that there probably was no way around that ancient Celtic – or had it been Germanic? then again, who cared? – thing with the runes carved into wooden sticks that he had postponed until now because he wasn't sure how Bones would react if he carved up one of her fancy non-toxic wooden cooking spoons.

 

Damn the Incas.


End file.
